Wednesday, December 12, 2012

A Sampling..

I wanted to complete my first published poetry book before my 29th birthday next week. I don't think it's going to be ready for a bit longer. But I thought I'd sample a few pieces in it.
Thanks.

The Riffle


He runs far and stays away on school nights
Grass stained knees and orange blood on a sleeve
The fields stare back at him from class
Teacher stuffing letters into the pockets of the good kids
Whose parents dote
He runs far and listens to the old timers
Spinning yarns on benches built by their fathers
Making light of the broken systems
That allowed the fishing to get so bad
He punches the boy from lunch that pokes his ribs
And scratches his eyes in a bloody fight
Banging skulls against the gymnasium door frame. 
Teeth in knuckles and hair between teeth.
He ran to the riffle in old Jensens creek 
To burn and drown the note home
That he wasn’t afraid to die.


The Meadow

In the meadow a cow has broken its leg. 
She howls in the night like the moon is about to break.
The farmer cannot hear her. 
He's drunk at the bar and my dogs begin to whine with the sound.
A cruel cacophony of the canine and bovine. 
Dogs recanting urges buried since they joined us at the hunters fire.
The prickly hackles stand up as the coyotes circle and we can almost see them through their yelps and blithe laughter.
The dogs seem torn for a moment 
Lost in the foray of their ancestors.
The silence takes hold and I'm alone by the fire.

Crooked

I watched a siege of sandhill cranes 
Saunter upon a reborn patch of the earth. 
The deep tilling furrows cut back like black corduroy 
The symmetry of modern man is an abomination.
Where sage once stood around the indians 
Returning from the grinding mills high on the bluffs
Their paths were much more crooked than the cranes.
Left overs from the dinosaurs and the land before humans knew
Still stalking the meadows
Made in our image.


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